


Red Thread

by jayyxx



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26610583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayyxx/pseuds/jayyxx
Summary: “Look what I found,” he says quietly, holding up a thin bracelet, woven in red string. “Kind of cool, hey?”You take the bracelet from his hand, thumbing over it. There is a metal washer holding the two sides together. It is cool.or, how the red key-chain came to be.
Relationships: Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 72





	Red Thread

**Author's Note:**

> hi! 
> 
> omg this film. damn. I saw it alone in the theatre bc no one wanted to go with me and it was totally the way to see it. it was awesome. 
> 
> anyways this is past-neil and future-protagonist using second-person view. I hate it too but I would feel so weird giving him a name. I've heard a couple people call him "John" which I don't mind at all. what do you guys think?

“Alright. You got everything?” You slide into the car beside him, throwing your bags in the back seat. 

“Look what I found,” he says quietly, holding up a thin bracelet, woven in red string. “Kind of cool, hey?”

You take the bracelet from his hand, thumbing over it. There is a metal washer holding the two sides together. It is cool. “Yeah.”

“And look,” he starts, leaning over to show you. He takes the woven string back and pulls it by the one side of the washer. The string slides open. He pulls your hand and puts the bracelet around your wrist, lifting your hand up to cinch it tight again. 

You stare at it for a moment. Then over at his hands. Then the red thread. “Is it for me?”

“Sure. I just got it over at that little market. The boy was very sweet.”

You say nothing else. His mind is somewhere else, but yours is right here. You drive, hand on the gear shift, washer sitting right over your wrist.

\---

Someone comments on it in the next few days. At the tailors. The man brings his tape measure from your armpit to your wrist. But he doesn’t mention it until you’ve got your button down on.

“Your bracelet is cool,” he says kindly, making conversation. “Where did you get it.”

You had sort of forgotten you were wearing it. You just assumed you’d take it off when you needed to wear a suit next, but in fact, you wore one last night. You buttoned your cuffs and linked them right on top of the washer and red thread and thought nothing of it. 

“Hm. A market in Mumbai. My partner gave it to me.” You recall with a slight smile. It’s funny to you how it’s something so small that has come to mean a lot. A gift from Neil. How very sweet. 

“That’s awfully kind of her. What a cool token.” He says, helping you slip into your coat. 

Your smile drops, and yet, you don’t know why.

\---

He’s yelling for you.

“Neil, _Neil_ , please.”

He’s calling your name. Crying it. You put your hands on him. Your palms against his face, soothing under his eyes with your thumbs. 

He’s high off the medication and the pain. He’s upset about the mission and scared about being alone and crying over whatever else. He’s panting and thrashing and sobbing. It’s painful. You whisper to him, calming him, petting your hands over his hair. 

“Shhh. You’re alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

_Where were you!?_ He’s blubbering against your palms. He yells again, _where were you?_ but this time it’s softer. Sadder. 

“I’m here, I’m here now. I’m so sorry, Neil, I’m here now.”

His hands reach up and grab your wrists. His fingers push into the loop of your bracelet. He’s calming down, and the nurses are thankful. They move around him, administering more drugs, checking vitals, the works. 

Neil breaths hotly, and you feel it against your face. “That’s it, just breathe. You’re alright.”

His little stint has exhausted him to no avail. His head goes wobbly as the drugs hit his system and he relaxes between your hands. His hands drop away from yours, his index finger getting tangled in your bracelet for a brief moment before falling to the bed. 

You arrange him so he’s comfortable. Lay his arms by his sides and sit his head up high to avoid a kink in the neck. You’re not going anywhere, not again, and so you sit the a chair nearest his bed and rest your head against the cot. Breathing like you had instructed him to.

And he’s so young. So, so young, you ache for him when he’s in pain. You feel his hand on the bed and reach to hold it. You think of the way his hand had searched out the bracelet on your wrist, and then work to remove it. Once off you pull Neil’s limp hand through the loop and tighten it snug, red bright against his pale skin. 

Your own exhaustion has taken over. You rest your head by his hand, staying close enough for comfort. In sleep, his hand seems to reach for you.

\---

He’s nervous. Sitting against the headboard with his feet pulled up, staring down at his twiddling thumbs to avoid making eye contact.

“I won’t be gone long.” You say, shoving clothes in a pack back. “Before you wake up.” 

He looks at you, then, eyes worried and angry and distressed. He rubs his nose and then his eyes. 

“See,” you say, dropping your bag to the other bed. You come between the hotel beds to sit beside him on his. “You’re exhausted. You need to rest.” 

“Like I’ll be able to sleep if you’re not here.” 

And you don’t know how to take that. Of course, he simply means because you will be out, gathering intel from a dangerous man in the setting of a romantic night out. Of course he will be worried, because he can’t accompany you. Or does he mean in general? Has this connection grown to something strong enough to keep Neil from sleep? If you are not in the room, will Neil find peace, enough so to relax and rest?

You reach over, pushing blonde hair that has fallen out of place back against his head. “Just try.” 

He rolls his eyes. Defiant and young and reckless, but get you know when you get back later tonight, he will not have moved from this spot. 

As you’re about to leave, his hand latches onto yours, sinking his fingers in. He pulls you to sit again and he slowly works the red bracelet off his own wrist. Once off he grabs your hand again, slipping it back on and tightening it so it sits under your cuff. You feel it, warm against the underside of your wrist, the worn threads against your shirt sleeve. 

“Be careful. I want that back.”

You have an overwhelming desire to kiss him. To kiss his forehead in comfort, to kiss his mouth in promise, to kiss his shoulder in reminder.

And yet, you do none of that.

\---

_”Awh.”_

“I know. I’m sorry.” You deposit the broken bracelet into his palm. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“It’s alright,” he says, but he’s sad about it. He pushes it into his hands. You’re both thinking the same thing. About how this metal washer and red string has become a token. A token of you together. It has tied you together for months and months, the only thing remaining the same besides you yourselves. And yet you never speak of it. You never talk about the transactions that occur when you slip the washer into the others pocket, on onto the others person, without them even thinking of it. 

Neil begins to pull at the dirty, charred thread, ripped off during your latest fight. At least you were in the right mind to pick it up. In fact, you remember how your heart stopped when you had noticed it was ripped from you. As he pulls at it, it begins to unravel in his fingers as the washer falls off and into his lap. The string is long when it’s unbraided, and it gives you an idea. 

You grab the washer from his thigh and the string from his hand and put them together. You tie the string at the top, one big loop, and pull the necklace down over his ears. 

“Huh. Nice.” Is all he says to it, picking at where the washer landed against his chest. When he looks up, his eyes shine. 

Later that night, as he’s pressed in your arms, you wrap the red string around your thumb and lay your hand against his bare chest. Your fingers stroke softly, lovingly, and the feel of him makes your brain shut down. You sleep for what feels like days.

\---

“You know the plan?”

“Jeez,” he whines, hoisting his bag on his shoulder. “We’ve only been over it a hundred times...”

“Just,” you put your hands on his biceps, “please.” 

Neil leans down to your eye level. You’re not big on eye contact —makes you jittery— but you stare back. “I will wait for you at the hotel. I won’t leave without you.”

He shakes your hands off. You huff, turning away from him to close the trunk of the car. The airport security agent is waving at you, trying to get you to hurry up. Neil pats down his pockets, ensuring he has everything. You’ll be together again in less than a day. It doesn’t make the hurt any less. 

“Got everything?”

“Yes,” then Neil hums, tilting his head. His hair falls into his eyes as he gives you can incredibly sweet look. “Please don’t worry.”

“I always worry.” You say with a shrug. 

He reaches up and rubs the back of his knuckles along your cheek. Your beard is long and scraggly. He likes it, though. He drops his hands and, while trying to ignore the security guard urging them to get moving, he gives you a look that makes you think he wants a hug. 

A hug he gets, and you gladly hold him against you, getting a hand in the soft hair at the back of his neck. Next time you see him, you’ll remind him to book a haircut. 

He softens into you, tired and warm and gentle. He holds you around the waist and you hold around his shoulders and he’s taller than you so you fit just right. You lean your face into his shoulder, kiss the red string against his neck. Briefly. Very gently. Neil notices, of course. 

And then he’s gone. He hoists his duffle back up on his shoulder, where your head had just been, and makes off through the sliding airport doors. You watch for a moment, but not wanting to make it any more awkward for anyone who was watching them, you leave as well. 

You wave off the security guard. She’s annoyingly good at her job. 

You hop in the front seat and fiddle around for the keys. In your moment of confusion, a knock comes at the window. You’re ready to flip the security guard off at this point, and curl your hand to do so, but when you look up, it’s Neil. 

His dirty blonde hair falling in front of his eyes, his smile big and childlike and sparkly. You hope your smile is half as endearing as his. You are so distracted by him you forget to roll down the window. He points down, motioning for you to do so. 

With the window open he reaches inside. You meet him half way, your hands connecting and squeezing. He pulls back, smacks the car with a smirk, and runs off the way he came. 

In your hand is the red string and the washer. 

As you pull it over your head, stuffing it under your shirt to lay against your skin, you take instant comfort in it. The thread that ties you together. The metal is still warm.

\---

“Take off all metals, jewelry, and dog tags and put them in your bag. This thing will burn them into your skin if you come close enough. If you wanna keep it, put it away. Okay, next thing—“

The washer against your heart is already burning you. You think about it as they continue the briefing. You think about it as you go outside. You think about it as you suit up. 

Neil finds you, lugging his gear all in one hand. He drops it on a pile by your feet, and you suit up together. 

The gear is black, heavy and hot. As you slip your jacket on, you’re reminded of what the general had said. 

“Neil,” you say, reaching up to pull the necklace off. “Turn around.” 

He looks at you as you remove your token. He watches you fold it into your palm. He turns, and you loop the string through the strap of his backpack, yanking on it to make sure it’s secure. 

“Be careful, now. I want that back.” You tell him and his eyes light with understanding. 

The next time you see him, you don’t recognize him. He knows you, clearly, and orders you a diet coke.

It’s not until weeks later, when you see that familiar token, red string tied to a brown backpack that you understand. You get the same feeling you will feel, years later, in the seat of the car. When he tells you, “Hey. Look what I found.”

The feeling of understanding is fleeting, as you turn your attention back to the task at hand, but later, up on the sand, as you watch him walk away, you feel it again. 

You know it won’t be the last time, but it hurts all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading this. I expected this fandom to be huge by now, but alas, we must populate it ourselves!! also, I have written an extended version of the hotel room scene, if that interests anyone? I could put it in a little series I supposed... 
> 
> visit me @ [ghostcas](http://www.ghostycas.tumblr.com) on Tumblr !!
> 
> also pls message me if you're willing to translate. that would be lovely!


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